Three Types of Losers
by belana-rus
Summary: Another Triwizard Tournament is coming, and Harry Potter, now the Headmaster of Hogwarts, is filled with strange forebodings. He is going to step into an unfamiliar world, find out a truth about his old enemy and know what kind of loser he is exactly. Written before book seven when dinosaurs walked the earth so very much AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a translation of a fic originally written in Russian by zmeisha.**

**My regards to my beta Teufel1987 who made the story readable.**

**Chapter 1**

"Have you talked to the Prime Minister?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That there are so many immigrants flooding this country that one can easily smuggle a dozen of dragons, no one will notice. End of quote."

"Wonderful."

"I have sent you the list of participants."

"I received it yesterday. Did you get mine?"

"An hour ago ... And there is still no news from Durmstrang."

"I didn't hear from them either. Wait, something is tapping the window. Maybe it's their messenger. Have a nice evening."

"I'd rather have a good night. Although we can forget about it for the next year, can we not? _Bon soir_."

The headmaster stepped away from the fireplace, opened the window and let a dishevelled owl and warm June wind inside. Yes, the period of tranquillity was over. One could only hope that everything will be different from the events that took place twenty five years ago. _Keep the Cup safe,_ he muttered. _Don't be daft, Harry, who'd want it? Keep a very close eye on the Cup_.

He unfolded the parchment that the owl brought and browsed through the text. _It looks like a cipher._ He thought. _Which language was it? Bulgarian? It was very nice of them to write the transcription. Let's see..._

1. Ben-Bezalel, Revekka

2. Wiedźmin, Anton

3. Volkov, Jaroslav

4. Gavlichek, Piotr

5. Krum, Snježana

6. Korvin, Ilona

7. Korvin, Mátyás

8. Perkūnaite, Linda

9. Rosen, August

10. Snapova, Albena

11. Tvardovskaya, Rosa

12.Ţepeş, Vlada

13. Chaklun, Panas

14. Schlemiel, Jacob

He shook his head as if he tried to get those strange syllables out of his mind. Snjezana Krum must be Victor's daughter. It would be symbolic if the Cup chose her. That meant that she didn't have a chance. Ilona and Matyas were obviously twins. They'd better be different from Fred and George otherwise no one at the Tournament will have any peace. The Cup should be carefully guarded. Jacob Shlemil's name was written in different ink, it looked he was chosen just so the number of participants was not thirteen. Someone in Durmstrang is very superstitious. There were an equal number of boys and girls - was that done on purpose? He must tell Hermione, she'd be delighted.

Something in that list bothered him. Like he sensed a movement at the edge of sight and realized it was a Snitch. _Beware of Bludgers_, he thought and smirked. The uncomfortable sensation didn't go away, though. Harry read the letter again and felt his skin crawl. "It can't be", he whispered. And then he read again: _Snapova Albena. _

_Snapova._

_Albena_.

X X X

Snape disappeared right before the end of the war like melting sugar in hot tea. His timing was impeccable, as both sides wanted to have his throat cut. The Ministry of Magic put him on the wanted list as a murderer and Voldemort's spy. Death Eaters hated him so much that Bellatrix Lestrange once tried to find out "this wretched traitor's" whereabouts from her own sister and nephew. Narcissa and Draco would have had hard times if not for Lucius, who had just escaped from Azkaban and made his appearance on the doorstep of the house. As a result Bellatrix returned to jail, and Lucius, who was responsible for her capture, returned home.

The Headmaster's murderer had become a distant, unpleasant memory a long time ago; a faded "Wanted" poster, a creepy story for the first-years and an unseen ghost of Hogwarts. To see his name on the list of Triwizard Tournament's participants was like walking to the bathroom to wash your face and seeing a snake in the sink: A particularly black, sleek and poisonous snake. Harry looked at Dumbledore's portrait and showed him the list. The portrait smiled inscrutably. The late Headmaster was willing to discuss everything from the nuances of dragon blood use to plumbing problems in the girls' bathroom on the third floor, but he refused to talk about the treacherous Potions master for the last twenty years. Not a single word; neither negative nor positive.

"Maybe he's long dead," Harry said spitefully. "It does happen: a man gets married, his child is born, and then some sick bastard eavesdrops and reports to his master - the end."

Dumbledore silently shook his head.

"He's not dead," Harry sighed. "He must be around sixty now. It's not fair. My father was barely into his twenties, Sirius didn't live to be forty ... and this scum is almost sixty."

Dumbledore's portrait only shrugged. Harry ruffled his hair and repeated addressing not so much the late headmaster as the night in general, "It's not fair, but I'll fix that."

X X X

"It's not fair!" Lily whined again. "I'll be seventeen in less than six months. If I weren't your daughter, you'd have taken me with you."

"If wishes were hippogriffs... If this Tournament were held last year I'd have won it. What's the point?" Roger was resigned and tried in vain to offer her some consolation.

"If this Tournament were held in Hogwarts, your dad would not have the need to go anywhere. Enough with the "what ifs"," Ginny said decisively. "What is this?"

Harry was thoughtfully looking at a red jumper and for the umpteenth time trying to decide if that was appropriate attire for a headmaster. He didn't reach any decision and took a metal disc on a chain from Ginny's hands.

"That's omni-purpose translator, the latest innovation of the Ministry."

Roger's eyes went wide. He had his grandfather's love for all things mechanical. Harry wanted to say that "the latest innovation" translated from bureaucratic to English meant that the previous one didn't work, but kept the remark to himself.

"Omni-purpose means that it translates all the languages?" Lily asked without much interest.

Harry smiled at such naiveté.

"Only ten: French, German, Romanian, Polish, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Russian, Czech, Latin and Goblin. They tried adding Parseltongue, but failed. This thing doesn't recognize the difference between a snake's hiss and sputter of oil on a pan."

"I wonder how the sputter of oil can be translated." Ginny said absentmindedly. She was also contemplating the red sweater.

"If my sister is cooking, the oil must be saying that she's pants at it!" Roger easily ducked a pillow thrown at him. "How does it work?"

"You put it around your neck, push the button in the middle and say _Traducio_. Well, does anyone want to demonstrate their skills in French?"

Roger and Lily made a face. Ginny decisively put the sweater into the suitcase and said slyly, "Let's have sex!"

Harry choked. The children were not so little, of course… And he'd be absent for a whole year… But Merlin merciful, what was that about?!

"Mum, what did you say just now?" Lily asked astonished.

"The question should be how she pronounced that," Roger laughed. "Mum, you have a lot of hidden talents!"

Ginny giggled at the compliment, then looked at her husband's red face and immediately turned serious.

"Harry, are you sure this translator works? I only said hello in Goblin, what did you hear?"

Harry's legs almost gave in from relief, and he fell on the bed. It was such a pleasure to know that his familiar world wasn't falling apart!

"Who taught you that?" he asked after getting his breath back.

"Bill, of course. Who else knows Goblin in our family? Wait… That cheeky bastard! It wasn't _Hello_, was it?"

"Let's say it's a good thing you didn't have a chance to say that to a goblin."

"I get it, it means, '_You have huge ears'_," Roger snorted.

"Something like that," Harry laughed. "Something like that."

That night Harry told Ginny how deceitful Bill was. Then she took off his glasses and said in a meaningful voice, "You have huge ears!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I will remind you one more time. You are representing not only your school, but your country. If you misbehave even once, if you take even one step out of line..."

"...a Portkey will send us to Hogwarts and detention."

"Exactly, Mr Malfoy. Please note that the Triwizard Tournament does not imply the fans' suicides. Try anything foolish and you will be going back to Hogwarts. And one more thing: upon returning from Beauxbatons, you will have NEWTs. Try not to forget about them. That is all."

"What, are you not going to warn us about the wiles of the French girls?"

"The wiles of women are a well-known international phenomenon, Mr Malfoy," Harry said dryly. "If there are no more questions, take your places, we'll be leaving in ten minutes."

Harry looked at the group of seventh-years whom he personally chosen to participate in the Triwizard Tournament on the basis of three criteria: the best student, knowledge of French and three students from each house. As usual there was a bloody battle between fairness and common sense. In the end both, sides were destroyed. Now, every time Harry imagined what these twelve strong personalities would do at the Tournament his hair stood on end. It was not obvious considering his hairstyle, though. The Hufflepuffs were the easiest. Those brave tin soldiers were ready to fight a dragon, invite a princess (or a prince) to a ball and write an essay on Numerology any time. Any sane headmaster would have only prayed that one of them was chosen a Champion. Harry wasn't a sane headmaster, though, he was "that freak Potter" - that's why he was turning cold at the idea of someone from Hufflepuff competing in the Tournament. Someone like Cedric Diggory.

The Ravenclaws were giving him a very different sort of headache. During their third year those three came to Headmistress McGonagall and asked for a time-turner because they couldn't attend all the classes without it. Minerva said that she couldn't entrust such a dangerous and fragile artefact to children who regularly couldn't enter the Common room because they had lost the scrap of paper with the password, and Harry agreed with her. Last year the three Ravenclaws came with the same request to him. They did get a time-turner although Harry still (at least once a week) found one of them reading a book outside the dormitories at two a.m. The outcome of their potential single combat with a dragon was extremely ambiguous: they could win using fifteen different spells or they could lose themselves in a copy of Hogwarts: A History and not notice a fire-breathing dragon at all.

There were also three Gryffindors: Sophonisba Fletcher, Westham Thomas and Gaspard Hagrid. Three big "so what"s (My father is a thief, so what? I was named after a Muggle football team, so what? I'm a quarter giant, so what?). These rhetorical questions were usually followed by a fight involving potions from Knockturn Alley, strange Muggle devices and various dangerous animals. With them gone, the Gryffindor team lost a Seeker, a Keeper and the commentator, the professors lost a constant headache, and Gryffindor had a small chance of winning the school Cup while Harry's chances of getting into trouble raised dramatically. They could not have been left out, though. They were the best of Gryffindor, the personification of this trigger-happy House.

And finally there were the three Slytherins. Morgana Flint was known in her House as "the Iron Lady" and to the rest of the school as "the Arse of Stone". Tom Wilkes was a straight-A student, Head Boy, the quiet one and a cynic. Hermione once said that a cynic was a man who knew the price of everything, but not the value, and Harry remembered that. This definition suited Tom Wilkes to the dot. Are you sure, Headmaster? Are you entirely sure? Of course, my boy. And the last member of the party was Abraxas Malfoy, Brax for short.

Dark-haired and grey-eyed, arrogant and careless, cheerful and cruel, Brax had an uncanny resemblance to Sirius Black. The Sirius who didn't quarrel with his parents, didn't befriend the Marauders (or anyone, for that matter) and who was sent to Slytherin without any hesitation from the Hat, to be exact. Harry didn't like Brax because he stood in the way of his love to Sirius. With each passing year, as Malfoy became more and more attractive, unpleasant and looked more like his distant relative, Harry had greater difficulties remembering the real Sirius. He realized that it was foolish to be angry at the boy for muddling his memories, but couldn't help it. He'd have been happy to leave Brax at Hogwarts, but young Malfoy had every right to participate in the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry stepped into the driver's cabin and allowed himself to groan a little. Apart from twelve teenagers he had a whole zoo: three owls, two cats, an auburn guinea pig, a graceful mongoose, an arrogant toad, a white mouse with cute pink ears that had a habit of running away from the cage and an apathetic hamster. Luckily he didn't know anything about the lizard of unknown species that Gaspard Hagrid sneaked onto the train or he'd been groaning louder.

X X X

For a whole month Harry had dreams about a dark-haired girl with a hooked nose. In those dreams he yelled at her, "Your father is a murderer!" The first glance at the Durmstrang table was an unpleasant surprise: there were four girls who had qualified.

Harry brushed off a dark-skinned beauty with a tame raven on her shoulder right away. She was sitting next to a boy who was her spitting image. That must be Ilona Korvin. A broad-shouldered teenager who was grimly crumbling some bread looked very much like Viktor Krum. Harry pitied her at the first glance. One way or other that was Snjezana Krum, and she was not the girl he was looking for. Only two were left: a busty cheerful girl with two long black braids and another in red velvet robes. The latter was facing away from Harry and when she turned hearing Hagrid's laughter Harry saw a disdainful smirk and an arrogant bird of prey profile. So that's Snape's daughter! She was prettier than she deserved, but had her detestable father's temper.

"Albena, pass me that white thing," a red-headed flap-eared boy asked. The girl didn't even turn, politeness wasn't her family virtue. A pallid blond girl next to the redhead boy silently put a plate with the "white thing" in front of him. "Thank you, Albena!" The boy smiled showing crooked teeth.

"Erm," Harry said.

The Headmaster of Beauxbatons smoothed his musketeer moustache and proposed health to his English colleague. Harry drank up, bowed politely and stared again at the Durmstrang table.

She had flaxen hair twisted into an untidy knot, barely visible brows and eyelashes, light grey eyes, prominent cheekbones, an impressive nose and a pointed chin. _Was this albino rat Snape's daughter?_

"It's called _blancmange_," the rat said. Harry recognized... not even the voice, the tone.

He spent the rest of the evening as if drugged up. Neither Brax Malfoy shamelessly flirting with French girls, nor Gaspard Hagrid surreptitiously (at least what passed as surreptitious for the large teenager) putting cheese into his pocket attracted the headmaster's attention. He listened indifferently to the story of the Goblet of Fire even though in any other circumstances he'd turned cold at the memories this artefact awakened. He mechanically ate the goulash the Headmistress of Durmstrang offered him.

He came to his senses two hours later near a high vaulted window in a corridor. Apparently he had managed to herd his students into beds in the interregnum. His mouth burned from all the pepper he ate. A tall Durmstrang boy was sitting on the windowsill and singing something quietly. Harry listened. _Любо__, __братці__, __любо__, __любо__, __братці__, __жить__(*)_... Nah, it doesn't make sense, this magical translator must be broken.

"Good evening," Harry said just to check the temperamental equipment. The boy jumped off the windowsill and bowed.

"Erm," Harry managed and realized that he wasn't able to uphold the reputation of English humour. "What is this slogan on your jumper?"

"I'm a werewolf, and that's cool," the boy replied glumly.

Harry felt stupor give way to anger. Did this boy know what it felt like to have your file stored at the Department of Magical Creatures in the Ministry? What it felt like to accept any job and lose it after the first full moon? What it felt like to depend on a potion only three people in the country could brew, one of them being an escapee? What it felt like to be someone like Lupin?

"Is it? I mean, cool?" he asked barely suppressing rage.

The boy shrugged.

"I get sick in Potions before full moon because my sense of smell sharpens. The holidays at the Reservation are great, though. And girls like me. Although I'll choose a wife among our own, but it's not going to happen soon."

He smiled showing white sharp fangs and walked down the corridor. Harry didn't move, feeling like a sleepwalker again. A golden green lizard a foot long walked by, stopped, raised its head, and hissed in a hostile way.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(*) a Ukrainian folk song. The text goes somewhere along "Life is beautiful".


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Goblet spat fire.

"The Champion of Beauxbaton is Marie Montbeillard!"

"The Champion of Hogwarts is Abraxas Malefoix!"

"Malfoy!" wounded Brax corrected indignantly. The Gryffindors gloated.

"The Champion of Durmstrang is Jacob Schlemiel!"

"What?" Harry asked flabbergasted and immediately faked a cough.

It looked like everyone from Durmstrang shared his emotions. The girl in scarlet robes rose, threw her napkin on the table and majestically walked toward the doors. The boy who looked decidedly like a Cossack sang mockingly watching her exit, _Ти_ _ж_ _мене_ _п__i__дманула__, __ти_ _ж_ _мене_ _п__i__двела_ _(**)_. Harry cursed his translator yet again. The girl with black braids laughed merrily. The redhead geek sidled from the table and entered the room after Montbelliard and Malfoy constantly glancing over his shoulder. Several students jumped on their feet and started shouting something to Albena. Harry perked his ears and made out _You set it all up!_ Headmaster of Beauxbatons tugged Potter's sleeve, and Harry had to leave this highly entertaining conversation behind.

Several hours later he went to the gardens. His thoughts were in disarray. From the day he saw the name of Snape's daughter on the Durmstrang list he was certain that she would be the Champion. It was so... natural!

He stumbled upon the subject of his reflections under a pine tree. She was sitting on a bench and was sorting some white discs.

"Good evening, miss. Did you find a treasure-trove?" Harry asked and cringed on the inside.

Albena didn't even smile.

"No, I won a bet. I was sure that the Cup would choose Jacob, and I was right. Why people are so stupid?"

"That is the question every teacher asks himself sooner or later," Harry said and sat beside her. "Were your friends angry because they lost a bet?"

Albena sighed.

"They were angry because they lost a bet, because the Cup didn't choose them, because the Cup chose Jacob... And now they accuse me of foul play. If only they used their brain..."

"It's hard to believe that someone could predict the choice of the Cup," Harry remarked cautiously. If she arranged not her own participation, but someone else's... At this point his imagination gave up.

"It's not. My father says when you are dealing with higher powers you should rely not on their fairness, but on their sense of humour. In all fairness four people had a chance to become the Champion: Vlada, Jaroslav, Gavlichek and I. The rest thought so too. And I imagined the silliest alternative possible and bet on it. Now these idiots claim that I charmed the Cup!"

"Your father..." Harry started carefully not knowing how the end the sentence. Everything he heard now didn't correspond with Snape he knew.

"He's terribly smart, isn't he?" Albena said with pride. She fetched a photo album out of thin air and opened it right away. "That's my parents' wedding." Snape with displeased expression held a hand of a bespectacled moth wrapped in white. "That's tiny me. Isn't it a funny picture?" Snape with the same expression was holding a wailing baby. "That was taken when he returned from the war, and I didn't recognize him." Snape in robes with strange insignia was holding a crying two-year-old.

"What war?" Harry asked wanting to tear those pictures to pieces.

"Transylvanian war, of course. He got a medal." Snape with displeased expression was receiving a shiny star from the hands of a tall wizard with white beard. "That's him reporting in the Ministry when the Werewolves law was ratified." Snape was giving a bunch of wizards a piece of his mind. "That's him at the hospital." Snape was giving a bunch of mediwizards a piece of his mind. "That was taken for the newspaper last year." It looked like Snape was giving the photographer a piece of his mind.

"There you are!" A very tidy young man with hair sleeked back appeared on the path. "Good evening, Headmaster. Albena, why should everyone be waiting for you?"

"Because I'm unique," she answered calmly. "Headmaster, this is Piotr Gavlichek, he's a schlep. It was nice talking to you. Bye!"

Harry went to Hogwarts express lost in thought. In the train Slytherins were demurely celebrating their triumph, Gryffindors were upset over their defeat, Hufflepuffs were trying to decide which party to join while Ravenclaws were reading in their compartment. The whole train was rocking. Harry caught excited and red-faced Brax by the sleeve and asked, "Do you have a picture of your father with you?"

"Do you miss him already?" Malfoy asked cheekily. "Excuse me, sir, I meant to say that I don't even carry pictures of my girlfriends even though I constantly forget what they look like... Excuse me, sir!"

"Firewhiskey," Harry observed.

"How could you, it's calvados!"

"In this case see you in the morning."

Malfoy said something to his retreating back, then added, "Excuse me!", but Harry didn't pay attention.

X X X

The whole next week he spent doing very important and tedious task of arranging the classes timetable. He made arrangements with the headmistress of Durmstrang that he'll teach Potions, DADA, Transfigurations and Arithmancy to her English-speaking students. In return she'll teach Numerology, Divination and Muggle studies to Hogwarts students (apparently using sign language). Beauxbatons professors took care of Herbology and Care for Magical Creatures.

During this week Harry decided that headmistress of Durmstrang was a very strange woman. She always kept three lit candles on the table. She repeated that Vlada Tepes was a countess fourteen times, but failed to mention that Jaroslav Volkov was a werewolf. She talked in five languages at once so the omni-purpose translator beeped and started translating with a Scottish accent. Finally she smoked a pipe.

At the end of the week Harry looked into her schedule and found out that History of Magic wasn't there. The headmistress waved her hand and said that only Piotr Gavlichek studied it, and he was (he obviously wanted to say "shlep", but decided against it) capable of working on his own. Moreover the seven-year students study contemporary history, everyone knows it anyway...

Harry was getting ready for the first Potions class with a shudder. Albena Snapova will be present at all his classes. She sat in the front row (Jacob Shlemiel sidled humbly alongside), opened the book and started reading. Behind her Brax Malfoy tried to cue Rosa's red hair, she giggled and elbowed him. At the back of the class August Rosen who had blond hair and long nose tried to convince Sophonisba Fletcher that her name couldn't be Baby.

Harry tapped his pointer and darkly thought that with each passing year he understood Snape better and better. He gave an overview of lunar influence over potions making, then asked the class to brew "something interesting" corresponding with the current phase of lunar cycle. Harry walked around. He stopped near the first-row desk and listened to his heartbeat for thirty seconds. The open book was covered with notes in angular niggling handwriting.

"My Dad wrote that," Albena said without turning from the cutting board where she was chopping some herbs. "He thinks school books are worthless."

It occurred to Harry that he would like to know one thing Snape approved of. He gave up the idea of hearing his praise of people long time ago. Mentions of the school book gave him an idea. After the classes he caught Piotr Gavlichek in the corridor and asked for the book on the History of Magic. He put the omni-purpose translator on the index page and said _Traducio_. Letters flickered, moved and formed familiar English words. _Revolution of 1918, Constituting the Federation, Petkevich's Reforms, Black Partition_... Ah, here it is, _Transylvanian War_, page 115.

_The beginning of the war. In 2002 after the death of Count Alexander Tepes there was a dynastic dispute. There were two claimants to the Count's title: underage Countess Vlada and descendant of the female line Milan Dragulescu. Wishing to confirm his right for the inheritance Dragulescu opened the doors of the tomb thus violating all agreements of 1871. He died the same day while Count Dracula acknowledged Countess Vlada's claim._

_The result of opening the tomb's doors was the Transylvanian war._

_Slaughter at Beloarishte_...

After that Harry browsed through the text without paying much attention. A dead village, approximately five hundred Muggles, acknowledgment of agreements of 1871... He put the book down with disgust.

It looked like... as unpleasant it was to think about it... in this war Snape chose the right side.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(**) humorous Ukrainian folk song. The text goes along the lines of "You tricked me, you let me down".


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The first task was drew closer with every passing day. Each morning Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror trying to see new grey hairs because every time he tried to picture Brax Malfoy fight a dragon h felt himself age. Brax didn't share his misgivings, strolled the halls of Beauxbatons with superior air and flirted with the French girls.

On the other hand Jacob Shliemiel nervously sidled around the school constantly looking over his shoulder. Harry felt sorry for him – the young man was nice, smiley, assiduous, and it was clear as daylight that he would not live to see the end of the Tournament because he was absolutely useless as a Champion. He was the epitome of clutz. Animals bit him during the Care of Magical Creatures, plants – during Herbology, and after classes his own pet rat attacked him. He spilled bubotuber pus on his hands during Potions and ended up covered in boils, he spilled sauces on his neighbours during dinner, they reprocated by magicking him more boils. During weighting of wands h stepped on his shoelace and crashed at the feet of Marie Montbeillard, Beauxbatons' Champion. Although Brax Malfoy loudly announced that only family pride prevented him from doing the same.

Two days before the first task Harry stumbled upon this walking disaster in a corridor. Jacob was trying to fix the rat cage. The bars kept breaking proving the fact that _Reparo _couldn't be cast on anything more than three times. The rat was perched on his shoulder and was watching his attempts with obvious irony. Revekka Ben-Bezalel who was passing by flipped her black braid over the shoulder and laughed, "How are you, Shlimazl?"

Jacob looked at her, smiled and made a helpless gesture. The cage fell on his toes.

"Why does she call you _shlimazl_?" Harry asked because this was not the first time he heard it.

"Because my last name is Shlemiel which means _loser_, and _shlimazl _also means _a loser_. They are just different types of losers. My granddad used to say that shlemiel tripped over himself and spilled hot soup on shlimazl's neck while nebech cleaned up all the mess afterwards."

"I see," Harry said thoughtfully. He spent the whole day tasting the word _nebech_. So this was his nickname. No the Chosen One, not the Boy Who Lived, but Nebech – the one who spends his whole life mopping up the soup that was spilled before his birth. Never before he thought of himself as a loser. Most people saw hero in him, a chosen few saw just Harry: a friend, a husband, a father. Now he looked at his life and saw endless scurrying with a mop cleaning up the puddles someone else made.

He thought that Snape with all his backstabbing never was this kind of loser. He always spilled his soup himself and always on someone else's head.

Then it occurred to Harry that he had no idea what kind of soup Snape had been brewing during the last twenty odd years. The History of Magic book turned out to be a very poor cookery book in this respect because it centered around other chefs and dishes. Harry chose not to ask Albena, he thought it was indelicate considering the fact that he wanted to kill her father during the summer break. At dinner Harry was very upset, left Bouillabaisse untouched and listened to students talk without much interest.

"Ew, goulash," Ilona Korvin said. "Mother told me that it's made of all things that drowned in the Danube."

Harry flinched.

"…and then it turned out that they eat dead rats!" Gaspard announced cheerfully for everyone to hear.

Harry gulped.

"A true aristocrat doesn't need a "Who's Who" reference. He knows everyone of importance, and the rest don't matter."

Harry moved the plate closer and started eating. "Who's Who"! He never wanted to be a true aristocrat anyway.

Apparently Piotr Gavlichek had no intention of succeeding of this area too because Harry borrowed his copy of "Who's Who". One acknowledged schlep in Durmstrang delegation turned out to be a blessing.

_Snape, Severus. Born 01.09.1959, Manchester, the Great Britain. Graduated from Hogwarts, 1979. Professor at Hogwarts, 1980-1996. Professor at Durmstrang, 1998-2000. Mediwizard at St. Jacob hospital, 2000-2002. The head of Potions and Plants Poisoning Department at St. Jacob's hospital, 2003-2007. The Head of St. Jacob's hospital, 2007-present. _

_Took part in the Transylvanian war. Was awarded a medal of the White Star, a medal of the Silver Sword and a medal of Princess Libuše. Worked on Werewolves Law. Honoree of Rabbi Loew prize (2005), Bathori prize (2008), Albert the Great prize (2001), Marcopuolos prize (2015), a member of the Council of a Hundred and Seven. _

_Married Henrietta Yanovska (see ref.), 2000. One daughter._

_The list of published works…_

Harry stopped reading because the list was half a page long. He tried to wrap his head around the idea that a criminal wanted in one country could receive three medals in another. Then he got tired and went to look for Jaroslaw Volkov to learn about the Werewolves Law firsthand.

X X X

Harry's prayers were answered, and no one died during the First Task. Hagrid was the worse for wear because he constantly was hanging around the dragon keepers until he was allowed to pet one. He got away with mild burns and a tail-shaped bruise on his back. Brax Malfoy had only his pride wounded because he ended up the last. Jacob Shlemiel did surprisingly well. It turned out he inherited a pair of seven-league boots, although they were old and slow. Nevertheless he successfully dodged the dragon until it lost guard.

The Christmas Ball at Beauxbatons was for some reason twelve days after Christmas and was called the Kings' Ball. Three weeks before the ball the senior students tumbled around the school with lost expressions on their faces, shrank away from girls who in turn suddenly started to have problems with eyesight. They saw boys only when they were three inches away. The teachers looked at each other with silent question in their eyes: was I also this stupid at this age?

A couple of days before the ball the duels started.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

A tall dark-haired man was walking through the streets of Prague. Occasionally he tripped on the pavement and swore in English under his breath. Judging by the expression on his face he was planning to do something rather unpleasant, for example, visit a dentist. He turned into a narrow alleyway, stared at the nameplate on an old red-brick house, waved his hand and disappeared.

St. Jacob's hospital was crowded, so no one paid the new visitor any attention. He sat on a bench and started wiping his glasses.

"Headmaster! Headmaster! Sir!" A chorus of voices wailed. He looked up.

"Headmaster, can you look at the poisoning case in ward five?"

"Headmaster, the reporters are here to see you!"

"Headmaster, please sign the milk bill!"

"You had an agreement, hadn't didn't you?"

The headmaster stepped back, stared at the man who asked the last strange question and answered quietly, "Not here, Potter", grabbed Harry's sleeve and Apparated with him leaving the milk bill unsigned.

"First of all, good morning, Potter," the man said and opened the door of a small house entwined in ivy.

"Where are we?"

"It's safe to assume that your manners haven't improved over the years. This is my house."

"You don't live in Prague?"

"Who can pay that rent?" he snorted. "No, this is Wawel. Come inside don't stand there like a monument to an unknown Seeker."

A blonde woman in a chequered apron came from the kitchen.

"You're wearing glasses!" she exclaimed looking at Harry. He shivered.

"Mr Potter, this is my wife Henrietta," Snape said impassively. The woman turned to him.

"I was about to return the crystal ball to the shop! I couldn't see his eyes, and it turns out he's just wearing glasses!" She laughed. "Well, Mr Potter, I hope you like strudel."

"Do I?" Harry was startled.

"I think I made it for you. It was quite embarrassing. I had a client present when I had a sudden urge to bake a strudel. Although anyone could tell her fortune even hanging upside down, it was written all over her face."

"Where's Albena?" Snape asked.

"In the Tatras with Yasha... Oh, wait, that will happen in six months. Now she's shopping for shoes." She stopped and pressed a hand over her mouth. "Severus, she is going to marry him!"

"Did you have any doubts about that?"

"He's an Aquarius, and I very clearly saw a Leo in her horoscope! But then again," she smiled, "I was never good at Astrology. Do you need a suitcase packed or can it wait?"

Snape stared at her, and then shook his head.

"It's not urgent."

"Then I'll get coffee. I have a client from the Ministry in the evening."

She smiled at Harry and left the house still wearing the apron.

"Suitcase?" Harry picked up the only word from her speech that made sense to him. "Are you leaving?"

Snape sighed.

"I am now. I promised Albus that I'd return to England and testify at the Ministry as soon as you find me. Although when I gave that word I was sure I wouldn't live through the war, but that doesn't change a thing. I'll have to apply for leave at the hospital. I haven't done this in ten years. I have no idea who to leave in charge... I must admit you are rather slow on the uptake, Potter."

"I beg your pardon?!" Harry was indignant. This was not the way he imagined this conversation to go.

"Well, if twenty years is fast for you... Everyone has his own standards. Let's go and eat the damned strudel. Don't fret; Henrietta is a decent cook, even though she doesn't look like one."

After the third helping of the delicious pie with apples, raisins and cinnamon Harry gained his equilibrium again.

"Why didn't he tell me anything?" he asked with his mouth full.

"You wouldn't have believed him," Snape shrugged. "You'd have decided that he was protecting me or something equally foolish. Actually, he counted on your disbelief and also on the fact that Voldemort always considered self-sacrifice to be a virtue of soldiers, not generals. If you think about it, it was a game well-played. Considering the fact that for the most part of it the winner was dead..."

"Is that how you see it?" Harry asked quietly.

Snape stood up briskly.

"How I see it is none of your business. Was the boy competing in the Tournament Draco's son?"

"Yes."

"Well, the whole thing was worth it."

Harry sipped his tea and looked at the fourth helping of strudel doubtfully.

"The werewolf's law," he said hesitantly. "Did you... because of Lupin?"

"Gryffindors think that every deed has only one clear motive and thus can be differentiated from the rest of humankind," Snape answered mockingly.

"It is then," Harry translated. "Good, I wanted to ask you to brew a decent Wolfsbane potion for him. By the way, I told him why I was going to Prague. He said he never doubted you."

"Yes, now the number of people who trust Severus Snape will increase exponentially."

Harry smiled ruefully. It had taken two whole decades for him to come to realise that Severus Snape really wasn't that bad a person. It was high time that the rest of the world came to the same conclusion.

After all, Snape had been reviled for a long time now. He more than deserved the freedom of returning to his home country, should he choose it.

Though, as Harry cast one glance around him, he had a feeling that it wasn't a choice the Potions Master would make.

Truth was, he was quite happy about it.

He may trust the man now, but that didn't mean that he had to _like _him…


End file.
